


Midnight Shriek

by Fedoragirl



Category: America's Suitehearts - Fall Out Boy (Music Video), Fall Out Boy
Genre: Epic Poetry, I didnt code any of the characters to mean anything, M/M, also its kinda gay, americas suitehearts, just the overall arch of sandman, mental illness sort of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-03
Updated: 2019-07-03
Packaged: 2020-06-03 16:05:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,273
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19467406
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fedoragirl/pseuds/Fedoragirl
Summary: Peterick epic poetry but its americas Suitehearts





	Midnight Shriek

Hark, Muse, for the mightiest of nightmares may plague you otherwise. The furious and infamous dream weaver is angered. He prowls the streets of the Hollywood hills in the moonlight, pacing between alleys and bars, bringing sweet dreams to the children and vicious maras set free on the adults. So sing sweet, muse, for should you speak out on him, he may taunt your sleepy dreams.

The man of yellow, Benzedrine, may spin around and around on the carousel, the king of nightmares at his side, his back, his neck, always pressed close and murmuring the most glamorous of daydreams to him. Trapped of his own hubris and creative mind, doomed forever to sing the words of the Sandman whispered in his ear.   
“You can feign innocence with full knowledge of oneself,  
Courteous chivalry faintly veiling your boisterous heroism,  
Time, Time, Time, have you told another yet?  
I apologize, I happened to have lost a hold on my Love.”   
He sang, dizzy from the lights and the carousel spinning.

Every day another celebrity came to fame, and every day another came to rest in Faded Memory, washed up on another shore, far from Hollywood Hills’ own. The Hills last all seasons, all the time. The most popular for vacation would be the Hills themselves, “Pueblo de Los Angeles Caidos” abbreviated L.A. to stand for “The Angels.” There are the Autumn Oakwoods, “ اوكوود الخريف ” a common residential area for the young ones, the dreamers being played like puppets by corporate, the new fad, the newest merch line. 

The Vindictive Sandman lives in the Verboten Forrest, where the hellish demons arise and roam, the dreams are woven like tapestries and churned out into the world like candy bars. Pixies dance and demons play there, the twisty, charred, black branches that seemingly creep closer as you walk, birds and bugs and snakes spying on you with golden ember eyes. 

The nightmare spinster paced the floor of his silver cottage, ornate and excessive. It looked like it was made of mercury, silvery and smooth and wavering. The fireplace was cold, ashes of a blazing roar thrown about inside, ruminants of warm destruction. Forth from the black flames would demons arise, born and dying on a spinning cycle. The sandman paid no mind, for he ruled all and none would touch him if they valued their sanity and life. 

The sandman would never sleep, his weary-eyed gaze accompanied with bruise-like circles beneath his eyes, his eyelids lowering rhythmically in time with his spinning wheel’s beat ever so slowly before he would catch himself. Never, not once in his lifetime had he fallen asleep, as it could be dangerous for the worlds inhabitants.

Then soon the dream weaver would return to the cheery, bright carousel, whisper into Benzedrine’s ear, and repeat his actions. There was only one instance when his routine would change. Once, after the work of the carousel, the beautiful, golden, doll-like Doctor Benzedrine invited him over to his home for a cup of tea.

There is one thing the Sandman cannot resist, besides the torment of people around him, and this one folly is the good sir, Doctor Benzedrine. The doctor is calm, sweet, and gentle. He calculates every move, works meticulously and rarely makes a mistake. He is clad in an all three piece suit with a pocket watch and cravat, as well as a top hat. He makes his moves diligently.

The Sandman enters the foyer, inspecting all the art on the walls. Feathers, potion bottles, and books of every kind litter the room like a birds nest woven with yarn and straw. The Kind Benzedrine offers him a mug of tea with a silky smooth smile, “Jasmine, with honey and lavender.” he says, placing it snugly into Sandman’s hands.

He would greet the smile back as a raven would crow, a dip of his head in a jerky nod, his smile painted over his face so long and permanent that it would startle one to see a true grin, accompanied with a melancholy quiet, “Thank you, Mister Benzedrine.” They sit down by Benzedrine’s fireplace, alive and warm, crackling and smelling of maple wood, almost sweet like spun sugar or fairy floss. Sandman downs his tea, finding himself calm like a serene lake, and find solace in Benzedrine’s home and presence. He sinks into Benzedrine’s teddy bear brown velvet armchair, quietly admiring his features in the warmth of the fire light. He notes to him, “You have such flawless porcelain skin, and dazzling apple green eyes. Everything about you is perfect, it's no wonder you’re the darling star of the Hills.” 

Benzedrine smiles kindly back to him, “And you are not as scary as you seem to be. Your dark and strange facade seems to slip when you are in the privacy of a comfortable home, yes? Less brooding masculinity, much more calm hopeless youthfulness. It is a shame that the people think we are opposites.”

The dream weaver hums in agreement, nursing the last of his saccharine, flowery tea. He thanks Benzedrine quietly for the quaint and calm company, and says he should go. He finds that he doesn’t have the energy, that, instead, the Sandman is the one to sleep tonight, tucked gently in soft blankets to bed by the golden Doctor.

“You were sick,” he says, brushing his hair out of his peaceful face, “It is my job to take care of the people here when they are ill. It is your turn, Sandman. Sleep still and dream well, when you awaken, the world will come around.” He smiles, and does what he excels at; he sings for the nightmare king.   
“Je remue le ciel, le jour, la nuit.  
Je danse avec le vent, la pluie.  
Un peu d’amour, un brin de miel  
Et je danse, danse, danse, danse, danse, danse.  
Et dans le bruit, je cours et j’ai peur  
Est-ce mon tour ?  
Vient la douleur...  
Dans tout Paris, je m’abandonne  
Et je m’envole, vole, vole, vole, vole.”

At first, the good doctor’s contributions seemed to have help the people, as none were plagued with morbid and repugnant nightmares, but with that came no sweet dreams, or sleep at all. They soon returned to the doctor, begging him for colorful medicines to cure their sleepless ails, else to lift his spell on the sleeping Sandman.

The doctor did his best, treating everyone’s concerns carefully, as not to cause further upset. Benzedrine would supply medicine, and after week upon week of people asking for it, he finally attempted to free the Sandman of his own slumber. 

Benzedrine had not realized, however, is that within his own mind the dream weaver is vulnerable. Nightmare creatures weave in and out, maras and demons alike beckoning him into the Nightmare Realm. Words whispered hurriedly in his ear while the golden Doctor was busy, and the longer he slept, the more he sank into this otherworldly hellish playground. 

Sandman gasped and spluttered as he drowned, his ever present smile melting into the waves below him, thick and gooey like slime, warm like blood. He was being pulled down by hands he couldn’t see, bony, fingers that felt like spider webs. He cried out for help, for anyone to hear him. The nightmare creatures only attempted to pull him under more, their touch feeling like-to burning against his skin.  
The sky bled purple as Sandman was pulled under, taken to the court of doldrums in his mind. The prosecution, judge, and jury were himself alone. He was found guilty of all crimes he was charged with, none spoken before him. He surely knew what they were in any case, he reasoned with himself, he was guilty of being rude and cruel at times. Of keeping people awake out of spite, of forcing his will over certain people. Of being unjust.

He was taken to a jail cell, awaiting executioner. It felt four score for him, though in his own dimensions time, it was merely four hours of Hollywood Hills time. Upon execution day, for Sandman, he was greeted by a golden man, who normally looked cheery and blissful, but today looked solemn.

He greeted him with a gentle smile, offering his hand, “I believe, Sandman, that it is time for you to wake up. Your psyche won’t be able to hand much more trauma.”  
The dream weaver blinked, confused, “I am not asleep, it is impossible for me. Are you truly my Benzedrine?”  
The doctor simpered kindly, said, “Because I am here to free you,” unbound his hands and walked toward the open jail cell door.   
Sandman hurriedly went to chance him, “Wait, that answered none of my inquiries! Come back, please!” But no matter how fast he ran to him, he never quite caught up.   
Benzedrine did wait, though, paused to take his hand, “Come, darling, we need none saying so that we would stay, and we must away to the exit.”

The grateful Sandman followed behind, hurriedly but patiently, picking his steps carefully as Benzedrine did. The Doctor told him not to speak, else he would alert the nightmare creatures, and to walk behind him quietly at all times. 

The golden Doctor never once looked back at Sandman, his hand warm against the Dream weaver’s own, keeping steady pressure against him, sure he was there. He only looked forward for the door he came through when he first dream walked into Sandman’s mind.

Of course, had it been so easy as to never be seen, this would not be quite such an outstanding tale. Naturally, one of the lowest nightmare demons saw them escaping, and alerted the others until it grew higher and higher up. First rank nightmares were the first to block their path, ripping the doctor’s longcoat to shreds, and clawing at Mister sandman’s cape. Dark, shadowy callous hands scratching like razors against his shoulder blades, drawing out a black and ichor-like substance from beneath his skin. Demons lapped it up off their fingers, reveling in the smarting shown across the Nightmare King’s face, the canary of the coal mine trapped within his own creation of agony.

Benzedrine in a fury only comparable to those gone to war and seen a close soldier shot down by the enemy, a rose plucked of its thorns and petals. He, the sun, the golden doctor, let off a blinding beam of light, obliterating the wretched putrid nightmares, cleansing Sandman of his inflicted sin. His eyes were ablaze, in a controlled steady gaze upon the Sandman, one hand held out to him, then other resting just close to the portal.

A vicious demon lunged toward the doctor’s hand resting near his portal, slicing off his hand in one clear blow, clean through. But Benzedrine, ever calm, did not even so much as flinch. Instead, the glowing angel turned to the demon, looking it dead in its flat, black eyes, and recited, “I fear none whom hold no presence over the real world, merely slumber. To ye, foul creature, you are none but imagination, a child’s plaything. You hold no bounds over myself, so pray tell, why should such a silly thing as you stop me from freeing your creator?”

The viscous shadow demon shrunk back, being burned by such a light as the Doctor, the candle flame of a dark room. One look from the holy Benzedrine, dead in the eyes, and the demon vanished. He, who harnessed the power of the sun in protection, looked back to the Sandman and smiled kindly. “Come,” he yearned, “It is time for the Sandman to wake now, the world needs dreams.”

The Dream Weaver took Benzedrine’s hand haltingly, only a moment before clarity urged him to clasp his hand in another’s. One smile from the Good Doctor and he was sure he was doing the heaven-sent thing, standing with assistance. 

“I must go now, Sandman,” Benzedrine said softly, head leaning against the Dream Weaver’s, “Or else I will become a figment of your mind. But you, darling, must awaken. Summon your strength,” he grinned, “I will be there when you awake, and I will sing your words as always.” As such a note, Benzedrine left. He did as he claimed, waiting beside the sleeping form of Sandman, singing softly to him.

The Sandman heard, from within his dreams, and followed the voice up his mountain. He no longer feared the creatures lurking inside and around it, simply smiled his truest beaming grin and climbed the mountain, collected and sure as the river. As he neared the blinding white top, and the sound of Benzedrine’s voice grew louder and more sure, he was positive he would be waking up.

His eyes blinked open owlishly, blinded by new light. Beside him was the Doctor, smiling proudly at him, his smile dazzling and almost showing too much emotion in a way the drowsy Sandman had never seen, bright and blinding of happiness.

Sandman delivered his dreams, shying away from such brooding nightmares, to the Hills as his job entailed, each dream designed with care and craft they had been lacking for quite a while, each as unusual and strangely magnificent, caringly made for each person alone. 

Rest now, ye muse, the Sandman knows fear and humility. No Nightmares shall plague you tonight, no sickening demons to taunt your sleep. The doctor did not cure him, merely helped him realize he needed to cure himself, with assistance from those who cared. You are safe now, so long as you remember that the Sandman is wielder of both good and bad. Sleep, ye muse, and dream well. The Sandman has blessed you tonight.


End file.
